


Devil's Brigade

by Tygermama



Category: The Losers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tygermama/pseuds/Tygermama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob Emerson Jensen ended up not liking his middle name much either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Brigade

**Author's Note:**

> many, many many thanks to the inestimable [](http://katemonkey.livejournal.com/profile)[**katemonkey**](http://katemonkey.livejournal.com/) who fixed all the niggling doubts that I had about this fic but couldn't pinpoint

  
Jacob Emerson Jensen never really felt like he understood his grandfather until after the fight at the Port of LA. It was weird but when the the fight was over and the flight to a new safehouse had finished and the adrenaline had worn off, he just couldn't stop thinking of his Gramps. Once the team had finished checking each other over and dressing any wounds they found, Jensen had gone straight for his gear, digging in the bottom of his duffel for a bundle he hadn't opened in years. In uncharacteristic quiet, he made his way to the living room, Pooch was sleeping in one bedroom, Clay and Aisha weren't sleeping in another, Cougar was out prowling the perimeter and for once, Jensen wanted someplace quiet to think.

He unwrapped a "Lake Umbagog" t-shirt from the bundle and laid out the contents on the coffee table. A small tri-fold picture frame, a knife, a badge and a laminated obituary were all it contained.

The first picture was of Jensen as a baby, not even a day old, held carefully in his grandfather's arms. George Emerson Jensen had been a tall, lean man, all whipcord muscle and gnarled hands from a lifetime working the printing presses at the Concord Monitor. He had blushed the first time he held his grandson in his hands and been told they would share the same middle name. He had kissed "Jakie" on the head and held the little baby close, whispering in the tiny ear that he hoped Jakie had a better time with the name than he had. Gramps had explained to Jake much later in life that he had always hated his middle name but he wasn't going to spoil his new daughter-in-law's surprise by telling her so. And since that initial moment of bonding in the hospital, Jake had been his grandfather's favorite and 'Gramps' had been Jake's.

The t-shirt had been from a fishing trip he had gone on with Gramps when he was eight. "Just us menfolk," his grandfather explained when he showed up at seven in the morning on a Saturday to pick Jake up. Gramps had always been a laconic man, quick to smile and possessed of a silent, body-shaking laugh, but when he did speak, it was brief and to the point. Gramps always said what he meant.

Jake had been thrilled to have his grandfather all to himself. He had caught two perch all on his own and then fell into the lake. Gramps had pulled him out of the water and wrapped him in a towel. His laughter rocked the boat as he started the outboard motor and steered them back to shore. Jake had apologized over and over for messing up their trip and promised he would do better next time. Gramps had looked at him with sad eyes and patted Jake gently on the cheek. "It's okay, you didn't screw anything up and I'm not mad. I will always love you, Jakie. Always." It had been the first trip they had taken together after his father had left.

Jensen sighed and pushed his glasses up, rubbing his eyes. Nana and Gramps had stood by their daughter-in-law, never understanding why their son would leave the way he did. But they had done their best and helped where they could and Jensen and his sister had flourished under their attention.

Jensen could not imagine where he would be now, if it hadn't been for his grandfather. He looked around the room he was in, thought about the _state of his life_ and started to laugh. "Honest, Gramps," Jensen said, looking up at the ceiling, "I meant that as a good thing. Really."

Jensen picked up the frame and looked at the second picture. A tall and painfully skinny Jake, holding a blue 'First Prize' ribbon, and Gramps, with his arm across Jake's shoulders, beaming for the camera. It had been his junior high science fair and he had won first prize. The whole thing had been his grandfather's fault.

The Concord Monitor had bought a new computerized printing press and his grandfather had been sent away to learn how to run it. When he had come home, he brought back with him a large box. It was pale grey, made of plastic and at first glance, Jake had thought it was a sewing machine in a cover.

"What is it?" Jake had asked.

His grandfather had looked up from the manual he had been reading, glared at it and said, "That is a portable computer."

"Cool! What does it do? Does it have games?" Jake said, already running his hands over the case, trying to figure out how to open it.

Gramps snorted, "It beeps."

Jake looked up, confused, "That's all it does? Beep?"

Gramps had shrugged, "I can't work it right, so it beeps at me to let me know I'm doing it wrong."

"Oh. Umm, I could help you with it, if you want." Jake said, looking hopeful. There were some computers at school but the teacher hadn't really known much about how they worked and he had read all the books in the library about them and now there was one right here, where he could get his hands on it!

Gramps had smiled, "I would like that."

And then ten months later, Jake had won first prize in his science fair for writing a computer program that could kick everyone's butt at checkers. Jensen had gone through three computers in that time and had finally gotten tired of the ones he had not being up to his standards and had built himself a new one. His teachers were talking to his mother about special classes and advanced placement, instead of complaining about Jake's underachieving. It was one of the proudest moments of Jake's life, even if he did think he should have gone ahead and demonstrated the version of the program that kicked everyone's butt at checkers while making smartass comments with a voice synthesizer that Jake had built himself. Gramps had said it would have been bad PR.

The last picture was of Jake and Gramps at his graduation from advanced training - Jake in his dress uniform, all clean-shaven and buzz-cut, and his grandfather in his best suit, with a chest full of ribbons that Jake hadn't even known his grandfather had. They only had a moment to get this photo, as Gramps had been interrupted by every officer that had seen him, coming over to introduce themselves and shake his hand. Jake hadn't even known his grandfather had been in the Army, much less anything anyone would have remembered. He had always been shit at remembering what individual campaign ribbons meant, and just stuck to rank insignia.

"I want you to have this. It was kinda my good luck charm during some real bad times and I hope it'll keep you safe too." Gramps had said, tears in his eyes. In the box was a knife and a red, arrowhead shaped badge and that was how Jake learned his grandfather had been a member of the First Special Services Force, the unit his own 5th Special Forces Group drew it's lineage from.

Jake hadn't really expected Gramps to come in the first place. His grandfather had been strangely opposed to Jake joining the Army, even if it was the only way he would have been able to afford university. Gramps had become even quieter on the subject when he found out that Jake had been accepted for special forces training. Jake had figured it was because his grandfather was a pacifist, not because he had been a battle-hardened solider in World War II and probably knew more about what Jake was being taught and what kind of work he was going to be ordered to than Jake did.

Jensen put the picture frame down and picked up the knife, drawing it from its sheath and testing the edge. He had seen it a few times before Gramps gave it to him, on the very, very rare occasion that Gramps would get himself a bottle of whiskey and quietly drink himself unconscious, sitting in the basement with a small folder and that knife on his lap. One time, Jakie had tried to talk to him, hoping to cheer him up, but his grandfather had just given him a gentle shove back up the basement stairs, smiling sadly and saying "There's too many ghosts tonight, Jakie. You don't want to be around me right now. Don't worry, I'll be fine in the morning."

Jensen understood the ghosts now. And understood those long nights alone.

Jensen put the obituary back in the picture frame without reading it. He had what it said memorized. He and his sister had written it. Gramps had fallen down at work after complaining of a headache and had died on the way to the hospital of a massive stroke. It had happened less than two months after Jensen's graduation. No one had been expecting it. Jensen had been planning on grilling his grandfather about his army days when he got leave but instead he had to keep it together and plan a funeral while his mom and sister took care of his Nana. Jensen had never been angry at his grandfather before. His sister had taken him out and they both got blind drunk after the service. The next day, his Nana had made him pancakes for breakfast and told him that she was angry too. Then they both started to bawl in the kitchen.

"Still pissed at you for just taking off like that," Jensen muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Jensen found Pooch's pack where it had been dumped in the kitchen when they brought him into the house. He pulled out a whetstone, cloth and a bottle of oil and started to sharpen the knife. The steady _shhhingk-shhhingk_ noise as he worked steadied his nerves and Jensen zoned out a bit, thinking about better times.

"Nice knife" came a voice from behind him. Jensen jumped up and whirled around. It was Aisha.

"Hey! Startled me there," Jensen chuckled. He held the knife up and nodded, "Thanks. It was my grandfather's."

Aisha nodded and sat down in the arm chair, "That's a V 42 fighting knife, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. Good eye." Jensen said, not really knowing what to do next. This wasn't anything he was comfortable talking about, much less with the woman that had shot him less than 24 hours ago. He gave the knife a little spin in his fingers.

Aisha frowned, "So your grandfather was in the Devil's Brigade?"

Jensen sat down with a thump and grabbed the cloth, "Yeah. The first of the all-time great badasses. But mostly he was just my Gramps. He never talked about the war. I tried hacking into his files once, but they aren't on any computer that I could find. Too old, I figure."

Aisha frowned slightly. "I know a guy who could get you the hardcopies, if you want."

Aisha's eyes were unreadable but Jensen figured this was as close to _"I'm sorry I shot you."_ as he was going to get.

Jensen slowly finished polishing the knife, wondering if his grandfather had ever been in a situation like this, sitting around making chit-chat with someone who was an enemy not that long ago. Deciding whether or not he should accept help from that someone. He felt he understood so much better now, why Gramps hadn't wanted him to join up and been so quiet about him going into special forces. Why he had given Jensen his lucky charm, for those nights when you needed something in your hands to believe in. He really wanted to read those files, since he never had the chance to hear those stories from his grandfather's lips. Jensen slipped the knife back into it's sheath and tucked it into the back of his pants.

"I'd like that. Thanks."


End file.
